


And We're All Under The Upper Hand

by NoPitSoDeep



Category: Avengers, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Past sexual child abuse, The noncon is very mild, clint you poor baby, non-graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:19:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoPitSoDeep/pseuds/NoPitSoDeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clint get in a fight, and Clint is kidnapped. Slight noncon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And We're All Under The Upper Hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Hulkeye fic, so be gentle. I swear the noncon isn't horrible, it's just scary for Clint. 
> 
> Reviews are log.

They've been fighting again. This isn't new. They fight. It happens. People fight. Clint is argumentative by nature. Bruce isn't, but he doesn't just let things like Clint getting hurt go. He can't. 

So when the archer jumps off a building mid-battle to save Tony's ass, Bruce has words for him afterward. The fight is long. They shout, and Bruce sees green multiple times, and in the end, Clint leaves, with tears stinging at the backs of his eyes. He storms out of the lab, and climbs to the top of the tower, glaring out over the city as though it's personally insulted him. 

This is also not new. 

What /is/ new is the sound of whirring metal behind him, and the dead thunk as something hits the back of his head. Clint falls back, and hits the ground heavily, wincing as his body is dragged across the concrete. There's painful, blunt pressure to his head, and he loses consciousness, his last thought being the mental note that if Nat could see this, she'd be ashamed of him for getting kidnapped so easily. 

~.~

The rest of the Avengers (nix Bruce) are in the kitchen when JARVIS's voice rings through the room, jolting them all out of their explanation to Thor about why he can't fly via Moljnir to go see Jane in New Mexico.   
"Sir, I apologize for the interruption, but it would appear that Mister Barton has been taken."   
"'Taken?'" Comes Tony's incredulous reply, raising his eyebrows as he stops moving the frying pan he'd been using. "What do you mean, 'taken'?"   
"I mean, sir, that a person of unknown origin has taken Mister Barton by force off of the roof. Fortunately, the tracker in his boot is still active, but my vital sign readings indicate unconsciousness."   
They have about three seconds to process this information, and start to prepare to leave, when the Hulk's enraged roar echoes through the halls of the tower, sending them all into hyperdrive while Tony runs downstairs to try to calm him. 

Within three minutes, they are out of the tower, and on their way to Clint's location, but not before a large hole has been made in one wall of the lab where Bruce ran through it. 

~.~

When Clint wakes up, he is immediately aware of four things. One, his hands are tied very, very effectively, behind his back. Two, his shirt is gone, and it's fucking cold. Three, he's on his knees, which is a position he has never been fond of, and it is decidedly not comfortable. Four, his head is fuzzy, and his mouth tastes of copper. He's been drugged. 

The sniper looks up and around, taking in as much of his surroundings as he can despite the fuzziness dancing through his head. Large room. Probably a warehouse judging by the metal walls. Ground is wet, cold, and feels like gravel. One door that he can see, directly to his left, and a much larger opening on the far side that's been covered in tarp. He sniffs. Coal. He can't hear anything other than his own breathing, and a very slight wind which rustles the tarp.   
"Oh, good. You're awake." The voice comes from behind him, and he stiffens on instinct, because he knows that voice, knows it so very, very well, and it makes him sick. There are footsteps, the sound of metal heels clacking on the rocky floor, and Clint grits his teeth, because he remembers that, too. 

"Did you miss me, little hawke?" The Swordsman asks, and Clint screws his eyes shut, because no, no he's not supposed to call him that, only Nat is allowed to call him that, not him, never him. "Oh, don't be scared, little one." He feels long, cold fingers card through the hair at the back of his head, and shudders, opening his eyes to look at the ground. 

The clack of the boots stops in front of him, and his eyes flick up as the hand leaves, noting the tall, thin man in front of him. He looks essentially the same, older, now, but not by too much. He's aged well, Clint is loathe to admit, and he feels his stomach churn as the other man stoops down, making eye contact with him. 

"Have you missed me, little hawke?" He repeats, reaching out to trace his fingertips over Clint's biceps, and Clint's entire body goes taught, every muscle tensing automatically. "Because I have missed you."  
"Fuck off." He growls, gritting his teeth and trying, desperately, to keep himself still. The Swordsman laughs, and Clint cringes.   
"I think not." He replies, and at that moment Clint lunges forward, trying to throw himself against the Frenchman, to get him away in any way he possibly can. Lumére just laughs as Clint is stopped, his body jerking back. He looks behind him, and notes that thick chains attach his hands to the wall behind him, forcing him to stay within at least a foot of it.   
"None of that." Lumére purrs, smoothing his hands down over Clint's chest. Clint lets out a shaky breath, and looks up, licking his lips.   
"What do you want?" He knows. Of course he knows, but that doesn't make it better.   
"Oh, darling." The Swordsman tuts, and his fingers dip lower, sliding just beneath the waistband of Clint's jeans. "I want /you/." 

He stands, abruptly, and paces around Clint, toward something behind that the archer can't see, and Clint clenches his jaw, closing his eyes tightly. He remembers being a child, the way his mentor would touch him when he misbehaved, missed his shot. He remembers all too clearly, now, the feel of Lumére's hands on him, and he feels bile rising in his throat as one of those same hands traces down his back, the other coming up to wrap around his neck. He feels the small prick of metal against his skin, and realizes that the hand on his throat is holding a needle, which has just been inserted into his jugular.   
"You've been with someone else." The Swordsman states plainly, the hand on Clint's back sliding down over his spine. "But that's alright. I'll deal with him later."   
Clint feels his chest tighten, and his eyes widen slightly, fury beginning to pool, hot in his stomach. Bruce. He's going to hurt Bruce.   
"Leave him alone." He croaks, and the needle drops to the floor, replaced smooth as silk with a small, exceedingly sharp knife.   
"Do not tell me what to do, darling." Lumére coos, and Clint just shuts his eyes as tightly as he can as the hand on his back moves around, sliding down around his hip into his pants. "The injection should make you more...manipulable."

'BruceBruceBruceBruceBruceBruceBruce' is all he can think, fighting back tears as the hand travels lower. 'BruceIloveyouIloveyousomuchI'msorryI'msorryI'msorrypleasepleasefindmeplease--' 

There's a loud crash from somewhere outside, and Clint's eyes snap open as Lumére freezes. He hears another crash, and a roar, one that reaches his very bones, and passes through him like rage personified, and he feels his heart leap into his mouth. 

In an instant, the hand in his jeans is gone, and the one at his neck tightens. He widens his eyes as the knife is pressed down harder against his skin, and as the other hand jerks his head back by his hair, forcing him to look at the ceiling. 

It's a relief when there's the crack of a gun going off, and both hands go limp, sliding harmlessly off him as Lumére's body falls to the ground behind him. Clint's shoulders sag, and his head droops forward, suddenly having difficulty supporting his own weight. There's another roar, and some loud stomping from somewhere ahead of him, and he's vaguely aware of a large green body barreling towards him before he passes out, falling to one side as whatever drug he's been given takes effect. 

~.~

When Clint wakes up, he's at home, in his bed. The drugs have apparently worn off, as he's able to form the simplest of coherent thoughts, and he immediately notes that a warm body is pressed against his from behind, and two strong, tanned arms are wrapped around his chest. He feels the press of lips against his hair, and shifts slightly, reaching slowly up to grasp gently at the hand resting on his solar plexus.   
"Bruce." He whispers, and the physicist hums his assent, tightening his hold ever-so-slightly on Clint.   
"I'm here." He murmurs, twining their fingers together, and ducking his head to press his face into the crook of the archers neck. Clint sighs softly, and closes his eyes, rubbing his thumb over one of Bruce's knuckles.   
"M'sorry." He mumbles, biting his lip, and chewing it thoughtfully. Bruce just shakes his head, and wraps one leg around Clint's waist.   
"Not your fault." He breathes into his skin, and Clint's head lolls back and to the side, resting on Bruce's shoulder.   
"N-no, about...fighting, and...stuff." There's a soft chuckle, and the older man moves, lying Clint down on the bed, and shifting out from behind him. Clint opens his eyes, and Bruce shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, and reaching up to cup his partners cheek.   
"Again. Not your fault." Clint tilts his head slightly into the touch, relishing in how /warm/ Bruce is, and closes his eyes again, nodding slightly.   
"Found me." He says, so quiet you couldn't hear it if you weren't looking for it. Bruce leans down, and kisses his forehead, fingers sliding back into Clint's hair.   
"Always."


End file.
